For Lori Jane, 1963-2013. We will miss your light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At the end of the big dipper is the North Star.

It has a name.

Like she who has a name,

who shone brightly but

whose light has gone dim,

if only until we name the others.

Edges

Sometimes, when sleep doesn’t come

and dark steals light from day,

my eyes can open

to see the light

visible

only

then.

 

Photo: www.cyclingisgoodforyou.blogspot.com

The sound of pavement

There’s a sound my bike would make

after a summer rain –

a contemplative

hyperbole

for what lies

beneath

me.

___

Rose-colored

Rose-colored glasses don’t lie

just because what they see

has already gone

in ways our eyes

and our hearts

differ

on.

___

Fuzzy wallpaper

I run my hands along it,

feel its textured pattern:

fuzzy wallpaper,

hung in my home

providing

hours of

fun.

 

Photo: www.scientificamerican.com

Lessons from the bathtub

I’ve been in the tub for hours.

My fingers look like prunes,

skin mountain ranges,

meandering;

a picture

of my

days.

 

                 

Picture: www.alliance-packaging.blogspot.com

Her lips

She has given me access

to all her lovely parts.

Most captivating

to me, by far

are her lips,

red and,

poised.

 

Afterward

They stretch out tender bodies,

limp and warm after sex.

Resting peacefully,

they find themselves

in stillness

and, in

love.

 

When we could see

When we could see the farthest,

our mouths were open wide.

Our silent words sang –

our hearts, aglow

with wonder.

Come, and

see.

 

When life makes you pause

The universe is perfect,

when all we know is love.

The best of our lives

is gratitude:

to wonder

with new

eyes.

 

Photo: www.crystalgraphics.com

Dangling feet

The simplest pleasures we’ve known

are those without contempt

for light and goodness

personified.

Dangling feet

make sense

here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the unedited capital of nature’s governance

we hold each other’s hands,

if only to pay it forward until

the next sunrise.

Love’s richest investments pay the dearest dowries

to those who hold the keys to each other’s completion.

So, in the interest of keeping what was never ours

we deposit our richest treasures

in the vault most sacred to us –

each other.

 

Resonating in a solemn chamber

of peaceful rest amid lilies abounding

I see the face of a lover.

It is one who knows me,

one who has known me,

one who would know me.

One who is known.

Our gaze is stuck across this time

and soul touches soul

when eyes are lifted from feet to face

and we are happy.

Photo: www.photographyblogger.net

*

Sitting in straight rows

we stare at tiny screens

lonely, together

*

She screams so loudly.

It’s been almost ten minutes.

At least she’s with Dad.

*

He covers her up,

a blanket for his lady,

his fifty-year wife.

*

Thirty thousand feet,

two wings, spread across the sky,

and potential friends.

*

My destination?

Wherever this airplane flies.

Up, apparently.

*

Some food would be nice.

I’ve had four bags of pretzels.

Oh, and some peanuts.

*

Why do they like me?

Sprightly lithe and prancing gents

think I’m something else…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes rise like smoke

choking out all others

with the rough hands

of time and tragedy.

Their beautiful hums

sing a sustained song,

peering with insistent gaze

into hearty souls

and soulish hearts.

Broken teeth still chatter

with the bite of loss

and the taste of pain.

But this broad sound

rises to the occasion

like no other.

A land, many times stolen,

is the only crucible fit

to shape this enduring

roar, this brutish beauty.

She, soaked in brine of peat

and multicolored limbs,

snorts in stoic disregard

for all that dares

impede the moorish march

of belief in yesterdays.

Any old fool can pose

a lust for tunish repast

‘round doilied tables of tea and greed,

disgust of the rich, the divas of demand.

Not this sweet savage,

not this tumble down lullaby

haunt of kings, joke of ghosts.

In her misty-eyed song

you’ll find no sorrys,

just a jolly lament

and the bittersweet ceilidh

of the lost.

Sing along…if you dare.

Picture: www.bagpipers.com  (my kinda website!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The quail can always find a home

‘neath bush and tree and garden gnome.

Their pencil legs a meager stand

are still enough to ‘scape my hand.

They jut and dart and squirt around

like wing-ed hamsters, rarely found,

and when the time has come to dine

they squiggle cross my lawn to find

a twig, a bud, a worm or two

to feed their quail-ettes like they do.

They never come just two or three

but dozens, quite the sight to see.

These paragons of Spring time flare

though awkward, still they, willing, dare

to squat inside my arbor bush

until their next big dinner rush.

 

Picture: www.mommaneedsabeer.blogspot.com

Looking at his watch he notices

how evenly spaced are the numbers

that so unevenly divide his life.

So, he takes it off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Picture: www.123rf.com